Page 56

THE FATHER

WREN

T he words are rolling thunder from the mountains.

“I’m sorry…” I stutter in response. “Call you…call you what ?”

“Silas. You know my name, Wren . Your father is the one who named it and saddled me with this…honor.” His tone is acidic, like the winter rains, and I shiver, pulling the cold of the bones around me to shore up my courage, to strengthen my spine.

“You know my name, Sir ,” I snap back, a maelstrom of anger replacing the rare joy from my odd time with Kaden. “I am Keeper, or BoneKeeper, or, if you must , Ceridwen. No other. And your resentment is misplaced as I didn’t choose you. The bones did. I’ll pass along your thanks, however.”

“But Wren to your friends, Keeper?” He ignores my reply as Rannoch steps up beside Silas, just as storm-ridden, and the two exchange a long, dark look. “What friends do you have here, Wren ?” Something curls through his voice like smoke.

“Why would you think I have none?” I hedge, and they look at each other again.

“Who are your friends.” It is not a question, it is a demand, and for some reason it makes me want to cry, cry rivers and valleys until I have emptied myself of all the water in my body.

Running my hands along the walls, I press my face into them, turning away from the men, and the bones whisper soft words of comfort to me.

There’s a pause, and then the Father’s voice, this time softer, the fury drained from it. “The bones. Of course. Of course .” He is almost gentle now. “Did you tell the Trader that the bones call you that?”

Shaking my head, I press my lips together in a tight line. “No. Just that my friends do.” It’s no use fighting, or playing word games. “What does it matter, Sir?”

His eyes narrow. “I have asked you before. I will not ask kindly again. Silas. At least when we are alone, or with Rannoch. There are no secrets between us.”

The words hold a wealth of meaning, and I turn slowly from the wall to face them.

Lorcan? I whisper, suddenly ice cold and shivering.

Here. He answers immediately. Just go cautiously, Little Keeper. I don’t know the game at hand, but Silas is a good man. We were close…before. The other one I don’t know as well. He and Silas became friends after my Guiding. But I grew up with Silas. Just go cautiously.

Both Rannoch and Silas are watching me through interested gazes. They look at each other silently again, some unspoken communication passing between them, before turning back to me.

“Who are you speaking with?” Rannoch asks quietly.

“What?” The word stumbles out of my mouth, surprise clear. “The bones, of course…” I add on awkwardly, and he frowns.

“But which bones?”

“I don’t see why that matters,” I reply, slowly, slowly moving my hands down my vertebracelets then up to my ear cuffs, not letting them linger in any one place too long.

“There is someone you are speaking with specifically, Keeper. I would like to know who,” Silas says now, commanding, a strange note in his voice, and I shrug .

“Well. I would like to know why the Council is full of poison and plague, but we can’t always get what we want, can we.”

Wren! Lorcan barks out, but there’s laughter tumbling in his voice that pulls at my lips. What is going on with you?

I don’t know I reply, and ice floods my stomach.

I don’t know, and that’s the marrow truth.

Two weeks ago I was cold marble. Two weeks ago I spent every spare moment on the other side of the veil.

I knew who I was. I had a place and a purpose, and if I wasn’t happy, at least I recognized myself in the mirror.

Now I am a storm season of emotions I haven’t felt since I was a child, an avalanche of living pulling me screaming from my comfort into this breathing world where I don’t belong.

I don’t belong and yet I can’t leave ; somehow I have stepped too far from the shade and something is pushing me further.

It is too much.

“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper helpless, pressing my hand against my mouth.

“Please. I don’t want to be here. I just want to go home.

” I don’t care that I’m breaking in front of them, don’t care that I’m showing pieces of myself that they haven’t earned.

Exhaustion presses on me; if I could just close my eyes and sleep.

If I could just disappear from this world for the smallest time.

If I could just step from my body for a moment, I think I would survive.

Silas sighs, eerily echoed by Rannoch, and Lorcan down my back, all three exhaling from opposite sides of the veil, and I am trapped in their breaths somewhere in between.

The world wavers, shimmering in front of me, and Silas leaps forward in a sudden movement.

Catching me before I fall, he holds me upright until my feet steady, though my stomach churns.

Burying my now throbbing head in my palms, I try to pull away from him.

In response he grabs my hand, looks surreptitiously around him, then leads me along a thin dirt strip, barely distinguishable from the scrub surrounding it.

I’ve never noticed it, despite walking this village my entire life.

Rannoch mutters a sound of surprise, but nothing more, and follows after us.

I am too unbalanced to fight him, my vision still blurred and wavering, and follow like a newborn pony, legs wobbly and unsure.

Moments later we are at a strange little door, wooden and cracked, tucked into a rough, dirt wall.

It is almost impossible to see until you are directly in front of it, the bleached wooden panels the same color as the uneven dips and crags of the dirt, and there are no footprints or track marks to give away its location.

Silas looks around carefully once more before opening the door and drawing me inside.

Rannoch follows quickly, glancing left and right on alert, the door snicking softly shut behind us.

They lead me down a long hall to a dark, cold room.

It’s barely big enough for the three of us, more a large closet than anything else, one wall curving out and around, all the way back to the doorway.

I’m guessing it was a natural cave that was closed off just enough to put a door in, and then forgotten.

There are a few, sparse shelves against almost damp stone, and a single half-broken chair with one uneven end table beside it.

We must be deep, deep into the mountain for there to be moisture on the walls here; it is not a well traveled area.

Silas lights a small, wavering lamp and places it next to the chair, where he directs me to sit.

Blood moths fill my stomach at the sight, thinking briefly of the Trader’s description of me, but I am knocked out of my reverie by a cool glass being pushed into my hand.

Silas nudges the cup towards me, indicating I should drink; I just stare down at the water. He waits, waits some more, then barks out, “Drink, Keeper.”

Anger surges against my ribs at his tone, a searing heat like the blade of a Render’s sword.

Silas pulls fire from me as quickly as the Trader pulled laughter; I know which I prefer.

Boiling rage gives me the gift of clarity, burning away the lingering unease of the last half hour, clearing the fog from my brain.

Mouth twisting in the mockery of a smile, I shake my head mutinously, trying to ignore how much I feel like a child throwing a tantrum.

Little Keeper, for all the stars in the sky…

But Lorcan’s caution is too amused to be taken seriously, as though he’s watching a game rather than a war, so I ignore him.

“I will not tell you again. Drink the water,” Silas bites out, glaring at me, and I smirk, shrugging noiselessly. “You are impossible , Keeper! Drink!”

Since my silence seems to infuriate him, an unexpected weapon in an unusual battle, I simply raise a brow and remain unmoving.

We are stone crashing against stone, fire against ice, until suddenly, without warning, he softens, exhaling sharply.

The shift is so abrupt, so tangible, I almost fall forward from my seat, as though the tense air between us had been solid.

“Earth and Sky. Of course. Think , Silas.” He is clearly frustrated, more with himself than with me.

Reaching out, he grabs the cup back, glances between me and the glass, then takes my hand in surprisingly gentle fingers.

Carefully placing my palm against his throat, he murmurs, “You can feel me swallow this way. I’ll test it first so you know it’s safe.

I won’t have you fear poison in my presence. ”

I can’t help the small spasm of my grip in surprise, and his eyes flare briefly in response, sending a curious ripple through me.

Focusing entirely on my face, he places one of his hands over my own, wrapping my fingers more tightly around the strong column of his throat.

His other lifts the glass to his mouth and he sips, once, twice, enough that I can feel the movement of his skin under my own.

And then he stops, leaving us frozen until Rannoch clears his throat uncomfortably from his position behind Silas.

Without looking away from me, he takes the glass from his mouth, turns it, and places it against my own, so our lips share a single point. There is nothing about this moment that should be so fragile, so unbalanced, yet my breath is shallow, my lungs tight.

“Will you drink? Please?” It’s not a demand, just a curling, sweet smoke request, and almost against my will, I take a sip, though my hand is still on his throat beneath his own.

The water is unexpectedly cold, and pulls me back to myself. Of course it is pure. Of course. What else would the Council have for themselves while their people drink filtered poison? Whatever secret I have let slip in my expression causes him to sigh, and he releases my hands before turning away.